


Willing Shadows

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair does a good job, but pays a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to Kylia, Patt and Melinda--they were all reassuring and helpful, and exactly what this story needed. :)

## Willing Shadows

by Tangent

Author's disclaimer: The boys are not mine and never will be, no matter how many falling stars I wish upon.

* * *

"Sand _burg_!" 

Blair and I both look up. "What can I do for you, Captain?" Blair asks sunnily, and I grimace at him. He should know by now that nothing gets Simon's back up faster than sunny. 

"You can get your scrawny ass in here, is what you can do." Simon glares at both of us in equal measure, so I rise when Blair does. But Simon makes 'sit, sit' motions at me and I sink back down behind my desk. Blair and I share an inquisitive look, then he shrugs and heads for Simon's office. 

Probably nothing, I think as I return to the report I was finishing up. In fact, it was most likely just another warning for Blair to keep his nose out of other people's cases--which, I have to admit, is a warning we _both_ deserve. Working together on an official basis has seemed to give us many new opportunities to get dragged into things we should have no part of. 

I tune in to their conversation without the slightest guilt. If Simon had really meant for me not to hear this, he would have sent me off on some errand. 

"--just a few questions and the guy should crack," I hear him explain, and Blair is making his little I understand, I hear you noises, so both the guy and Simon's reason for telling him must be interesting. 

"But none of the guys in Homicide can figure out what to ask?" Blair asks. 

"The guys in Homicide couldn't find their asses with a map, a compass, and one of those Mount Everest guys--" 

"A sherpa." 

"Whatever. They need a few down there." 

Blair half-laughs, then says seriously, "What makes them think *I'm* the one for this job?" 

I can hear Simon chewing on the end of his cigar, which he only does when he's a little uncertain, and tapping his fingers on his desk. "They told me that Detective Danson is aware of your rep when it comes to talking a confession out of people. He thinks you'd have more luck with this guy." 

And now I know who they're talking about. Danson had been complaining to H about an uncrackable nut all morning. Made my skin crawl just to listen to the description. Instinctively I rise from my seat, ready to go in there and make sure that Blair doesn't get within a hundred yards of the guy. But Blair must have seen through the window because he says, "No, Jim. Don't worry about it." 

I hesitate, hovering over my desk, and he laughs. It sounds tight and uncomfortable and there's more warning than amusement, telling me to sit. I have to think about it for only a second before making my choice--Blair might be hard to piss off and he might not stay angry, but for the time that he is, he _is_. It's unpleasant for both of us. 

So, like a good boy, I sit. 

"Good boy," Blair says from the office, like he read my mind. This time his laughter is much less affected. I throw up my hands and garner a few strange looks from the guys in the bullpen and a snort from Megan, but Blair only laughs again. 

"I hate it when the two of you do that," Simon complains. Blair turns his attention away from me; I can physically feel it happen. 

"When do they want me?" he asks, and Simon grunts. 

"Ten minutes ago, Sandburg. Go!" And Blair is trotting out the door with this look on his face like he's got to peel off a band-aid. I rise again, raise my eyebrows at him, and he nods once, sharp. So I follow him out the door, laying my hand on his shoulder for just a second. 

This one could be bad, I think. Then Blair is asking me to play lie-detector and get him out of there if it becomes obvious he's not getting the truth, and I put aside my own doubts to deal with his. 

That's what partnership is. At least, this one. 

* * *

"Oh, I understand," he lies smoothly. "Sure I do, Mr. Carston. Sure I do. She was teasing you, and she was a whore. Of course you'd get mad!" 

In fact, the victim was a kindergarten teacher whose family would be enraged if they heard what Blair was saying. But with some criminals that was the method that worked. Blame the victim with them, and they crumble. 

Hard on Blair, and hard on me when I have to listen in. I know he's a fully trained officer of the law, and a damned fine one at that, but for years he was my ride-along. I'm used to telling him to get behind me, even knowing that he wouldn't always listen, knowing that now, he doesn't even have to pretend to listen. 

I still want to protect him. 

Especially from men like Mike Carston, who just exude meanness and stupidity. He's an attractive man if you just look at the surface, with clean, dark hair and bright green eyes. He's tall, well built, someone most people would take a second look at. But I've been standing at the window for an hour now, and I see how his shirt is grimy, can tell that he hasn't changed his underwear in a week, know that the rough charm with which he greeted my partner is shallow and fake. Watching Blair's empathetic eyes and seeing how his fine mind is just humming, I compare him to the man who sits across from him-- 

It's almost like looking at some good vs evil tableau, really. 

"I wasn't mad," Carston is insisting. "Bitch wasn't worth getting mad at. Those kids in her class, they loved her, and the other teachers at the school loved her and the parents loved her, but _I_ saw what she was." He surprises me with his vulgarity and spits on the floor. I can smell mint, something he's using to cover his rotting teeth and beer breath and I wince. Blair goes on as if that's normal behavior. 

I thought that he'd have a harder time with this kind of thing. For one, it's in his nature to like people and to want the best from them and for them. Good attitude to have when you teach, even with the less hardened of the criminals. But with the guys like this one--the first time he interviewed someone without me, it was a man like Carston. I stood right where I stand now and ground my teeth, cursing Simon's insistence that the kid had to go it alone once in a while. I doubted his ability. I'm ashamed to admit that now, but it was a fact then. 

And right in front of my eyes, Blair blossomed. It was hard for him, but he did his job, and he did it damn well. He might not have majored in psychology, but he's as smart as any man I've ever met, and he knows people. He knows what he's doing. 

He pays a price for being so good, but...I don't think he'd change a thing. He likes being good at this. 

And we've got good cop/bad cop down to a science now. 

"I got ya," he says to Carston and I tune back into them. Blair looks around and leans in as if to confide a secret. "So, tell me what you did when you realized what she was." 

"Didn't do nothi--" 

"Mr. Carston, please. The truth. I'll help you out if you tell me the truth, I swear." 

He's lying, of course. I can feel his disgust and know that if he had his choice, Carston would be locked in a tiny cell for a long time, with nothing to do but ruminate on his crimes. 

I'd like to take a baseball bat to him first myself, let him think on a broken jaw, but that's just the primitive reaction of a protector. I think. Most of the other cops in Homicide had the same reaction, and so did H when Danson was discussing this with him. So long as I keep that urge in check, I'm doing fine. We all are. And truth be told, I can't really imagine hurting another human who was not actively a threat. 

Not any more than necessary, in any case. 

Of course, Carston could be the exception. There's something about his shiny hair, his glossy eyes, something that contrasts repulsively with his rank smell and makes me want to reach through the window and tear into him. Maybe it's the fact that I want to see the rot underneath the polish, the way I can smell it on his breath through the mint. 

There's a staring contest going on in front of the mirror, and Blair wins. He almost always does. There's something almost pure and innocent about him with his shorter hair, his glasses, his sweet mouth. He brings to mind paintings by Renaissance artists, vibrant and lively and somehow better than life. The worst people want to dirty him; the better want to be absolved, thinking he looks almost...saintly. 

I, of course, know all his little flaws; I don't see where they get off thinking a man so obviously sexual is angelic. But I do understand how strangers miss it. 

I rather prefer that strangers miss it, actually. 

"I waited for her in the parking lot," Carston says. Blair nods, radiating compassion now that Carston is talking. "I just wanted to talk to her." 

"Of course, of course," Blair murmurs, and then reminds Carston of his rights. 

"I don't want no fucking lawyer," the man says. The curse looks strangely out-of-place coming from his perfect lips. But again, I get that scent of rot. 

I have to wonder if maybe I'm imagining it, if it's not just Sentinel senses working too hard because I want there to be something disgusting about him. Blair wrinkles his nose a little. It's not just me on this one. 

Then again, it's rarely just me now. 

"No lawyer, right. Bastards," Blair agrees, and Carston grunts. Then the rest of the gruesome details spill from him like rain from the clouds. Blair scribbles down the details, goes over some of them, asks questions--all without losing his empathetic air. I'm a good interrogator, really, but he's amazingly skilled. It's just the force of his personality. With some criminals, all that's necessary for getting a confession is the right face. The perfect expression. Obviously Carston found something he could relate to in Blair--my partner made damn sure of that. 

Eventually, it's over. Homicide has their case. Carston typed up the confession himself and signed it. He was all too eager to brag about his deeds, once he found someone he considered 'worthy' to hear them. 

Blair brushes past me without meeting my gaze, and I give him a slow count of thirty. He looked like he didn't want to talk but I know better. I follow him. 

I always will. 

That's what he gained when we made this thing permanent and official, something I always had when I needed it--a willing shadow, if he ever needs one. 

And sometimes, he does. 

* * *

I track Blair to the men's bathroom. He's standing in front of the sinks, rinsing his hands, scrubbing them with soap, rinsing again. "I always feel a little dirty," he says to me when his eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Don't know why." 

They want you to feel that way, I want to say. Instead, I wash my hands too, give him some towels when it looks like he's done scrubbing skin from his bones. He leans against the counter, looks at the water stains on the ceiling, and idly dries his hands. I watch his face, not saying anything, waiting. 

And it doesn't take long. In a few seconds, he starts to shake, and then he's shuddering violently, not looking at me. He wraps his arms around himself and his mouth works, but he says nothing to me. 

That's all right. He doesn't have to. 

I cross my arms behind his back and hold him tighter than is comfortable for either of us, tight enough to hold him together. I used to worry that someone might come into the bathroom during one of these moments, but I don't care anymore. There are enough rumors about the two of us, and enough of them are true. One more, I think, won't matter much. And nothing matters when Blair needs to be comforted. 

Just as for Blair, nothing matters when I need to be comforted. Another one of those pluses of partnership. 

"Murders a woman because she couldn't see that he had a crush on her," he mutters against my chest. "Murders her because he couldn't control his own feelings and blamed that on her. What lack is it in people that makes them do things like this?" 

I don't talk at moments like these. In all reality, that isn't my role. He told me the first time, when he felt he had to apologize, that I was warmth and friendship after evil. Besides that, I smelled good. 

And I know it's almost over when he takes on big, long sniff of me and relaxes. Reluctantly, I let him go, and reach into my pocket for a tissue. It's never needed, but he always says, "Thanks, man," and blows his nose to appease me. 

It's always amazing how much _colder_ I feel once he's tossed aside the tissue and stands before me strong and whole again, almost the same Blair Sandburg that left the loft with me in the morning. Like I need him to need me, and when he doesn't.... 

"Always," he says to me this time, and I frown at him. "I'll, uh, always need you," he says slowly, unusually awkward with the words. I blink, wondering if I had said anything out loud, knowing I hadn't. Then I gently ruffle his hair to lighten the mood. He nods, throws the tissue away, looks into the mirror for a second more, and then smiles. "Ready?" he asks, and I say, "Always." We both know what I mean. 

"Let's go, partner," he says, and I lead the way out. 


End file.
